#lisa fishman

[thedollhousereads]

This Thursday, recent DH contributors Lisa Fishman and Daniel Borzutzky (and more!) read at the Poetry Foundation.  

[3rdspeak]

[Holding a bird you find almost no body under the wings] by Lisa Fishman

Holding a bird you find almost no body under the wings

The girl entered the room

To be a tree, an axe, a fish a swan what else she gathered her costumes --- brown clothing under clothing from dirty laundry at the foot of the bed and from a drawer

The shoulders being the body Just now the girl again for a missing long-sleeved   Sorry I said about the suitcase in your way

The forest came into the seen Oak maple many many ever At intervals thin birches leaned against the other dark They were a tale, leaning

[poetrysupportgroup]

Jonah found a frog in the currants thirsty, he said, so we flicked water on it & it sat still throat pulsing bright-greener than the stem, feet spread, attached to the stem Three people one frog thousands of currants Basho, anyone, why write it down

Poem of the day: January 13, 2015 Orfordville // Lisa Fishman

[afallowfield-blog]

Jonah found a frog in the currants thirsty, he said, so we flicked water on it & it sat still throat pulsing bright-greener than the stem, feet spread, attached to the stem Three people one frog thousands of currants Basho, anyone, why write it down

Lisa Fishman, “Orfordville," poets.org daily poem for 1-13-15.

[jeanpolfus]

 Note:         

    "Was wintered in               unmade of stone and what-               not"

- Lisa Fishman

[saravz]

and hue to have unheld a scale— silver dishes little mirrors on their chains— they go that way, This and hoist It’s not like looking into a pool, to let your intelligence run away with you Come back quarter size, apricot moon A changeling is a child who appeared under cover of the ordinary, in exchange The morning came I have such pretty handwriting no one said but I myself thought it to myself so I matted it like the grasses or a canvas or some uncombed hair. It became a mess which was the research of where things go. A child could figure it out if there is such a thing as “out” in the sense of being figured in the thinking was like Origami, everyone folded out of birds, into specific kinds of birds I call you hickory category dot

"Heft" by Lisa Fishman

[spokenwordacademy]

Dear Orion, This rhymes. I. Wish that, you had stayed. with : me that night that broke

Lisa Fishman, from Surface Translations 

[junk-pile]

Fishman and her husband, along with poet Richard Meier, run a 12-acre “Poetry Farm” in southern Wisconsin, offering summer internships for poets that exchange accommodations for farm labor. Fishman has taught at Beloit College and Columbia College Chicago.

This sounds like a feasible internship for an ordinary person, unlike most internships in far-off places. Not that I'm considering it, I just think more people should know about it (if it is in fact still on offer).